Passenger

They say to write love is facile and ordinary,

But what they do not see is that I am just so.

I am neither sincere nor profound;

My words, they do not move mountains or shed light upon those dark lit corners.

I know love not as soft kisses and warm caresses

Of a thousand loves past, but unknown love.

Pure pain in its most veritable form.

A fire whipping, torrid and tempting,

Burning, leaving a pit in its wake.

And with this hole no joy could fill,

I navigate not knowing of what other lovers speak.

This dark passenger of mine is all I know.